The Dying Fire
Scene: Padded cell on the fourth floor of Merion, hired for eleventh-hour ac-
tivities.
Hie last might: three typewriters banging at unequal speeds; editors
| (eareren and recounting their articles as though they were telling
their beads.
Batch.—\ tell you | think this article of mine will do!
Vint.—I don’t think it’s good at all, but I do think mine
Reenie.—Do you think we ought to keep rejected articles?
Em.—But we haven’t rejected any, you know!
Chorus.—We rejected mine!
Grace.—We aren't getting anywhere; let’s get down to work!
Vint.—I don’t think this sentence is very clear; I think you ought to put in
“it” instead of just “doubt.”
Em.—I think we’re getting entirely too critical!
Peckie (with a whoofle).—I think this is simply screaming!
Chorus (hopefully).—It is going to be funny, don’t you really think so?
Grace.—We mustn't say that though!
The typewriters click on into the night. Humour dies; the editors look worn;
hope flickers out, their production may be a failure.
Reenie.—Em, write some more limericks! You know ’20 had ninety articles.
Em.—I really think we ought to have something about music.
Reenie.—Vve lost my little black note-book with everything in it. What
could I have done with it?
(Enter Nighthawk.)
Nighthawk.—ls this a meeting?
Six glances.
(Exit Nighthawk.)
Peekie—What was that idea | told you about yesterday?
Batch.—All 1 can say is I hope this book doesn’t come out before I leave
college.
Em (blackly).—Our wit 1s really very primitive!
Chorus.—Well, you know ‘“‘there’s nobody with any ability on the Board.”
K * * * * * * * * * x *
With this the fire died.
“We rolled our “‘r’s” for Mr. King,
We rolled our hoops on the first of spring,
We rolled our eyes at the crescent moon,
We can “ roll our own” on the oth of June.
By is As
